


The Book of John

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Consensual Bloodplay, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Marking, Non-Consensual Bloodplay, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape Recovery, Shame, Starvation, Torture, fluffy bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 15:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16915212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Sherlock has been found after three days of torture at Copper Beach, and is recovering as well as can be expected with a few permanent effects, but John is facing some unexpected problems of his own. What do you do when your fantasies tend toward darker aspects and your partner is recovering from those same experiences in reality?





	1. The Book of John

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Belle82DevArt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belle82DevArt/gifts).



The sock index.

Choosing the rest of the clothes had been easy enough. Who’d’ve thought a man could own so many variations of the same darkest charcoal suit? John took one out of the wardrobe at random and placed it on their bed, then went back for a dress shirt. He grabbed a white one, but then thought better of it. Sherlock might still have a few healing abrasions that might stain the fabric, and while they’d certainly dryclean out, John knew he wouldn’t want to advertise he was still recovering to the world at large. Especially whilst giving his formal statement to the Yard. The last thing he would want would be their sympathy. Not that he didn’t accept that they cared; he just wouldn’t know how to process it, or what to say in return. John swapped the white for dark blue.

But it was the sock index that had him flummoxed.

What socks does one wear to come home from a couple days’ stay in hospital? Was it possible they were not arranged by purpose, but instead chronologically- so as to not commit the dreaded fashion sin of duplicating the same pair of socks within the course of a month? 

John chuckled. Yes, he knew what Sherlock liked for breakfast, he knew how to coax him into drinking fluids when sick with flu, he knew how to make him gasp in bed and grab fistfuls of the topsheet, but he didn’t know how to make heads or tails of that bloody sock index. He took the first pair on the left. 

Sherlock’s injuries had been relatively minor, but you never know with head wounds, so John had pushed the medical team to allow for one more day of observation when Sherlock had confessed the bump and his neck were still quite sore. Probably just muscle tension, but John was in full caretaker mode, and in the end the staff figured one more day wouldn’t hurt. But he had the all-clear now.

John felt odd throwing the suit into a duffle, so he retrieved Sherlock’s garment bag from a high shelf- a sleek black Tumi in ballistic nylon with leather accents. Bag probably cost five times what John’s did (and that would be including all the clothing inside it). John’s old duffle, which he had brought to the hospital on Tuesday when Sherlock was admitted, now leaned unceremoniously against the front door. He’d deal with that later. Just get clothes, grab some non-hospital food for himself and Sherlock (who’d eaten, but only just barely) and then bring him back home.

The Underground let out across the street from the hospital, and John maneuvered up the stairs carrying the garment bag and the paper sack of food. Navigating the hallways with practiced ease, he pushed the elevator button for the fourth floor and headed to the third room on the left.

The room had not been cleaned. There was a folder with discharge paperwork sitting on the wheeled tray. The sheets were still on the bed, a disheveled mess. There was an IV pole with no IV on it, and a small assortment of cards and flowers. But Sherlock wasn’t there. 

Concern, tinged with fear, coiled up in John’s stomach. Yes, that was Sherlock’s signature on the paperwork. He had been released, which was to be expected, but where was he? Why wasn’t he waiting in the room? Did he hate the hospital that much that he had put on his old torn, blood-soaked clothing and go outside to wait? No, the bag of clothes and coat remained on the floor by the bed. Was he still in his hospital gown, impatiently wandering the hallways, now that he was no longer tethered to an IV? Did...someone persuade him to visit another room and help out with some sort of case? 

John knew each scenario was more unlikely than the last, but he also knew hospital procedures and this was- wrong. He headed to the nurse’s station.

“Hello, Dr Watson! Coming back for his clothes? I figured he’d have no use for the cards and flowers.” The nurse smiled at him. John only stared.

“Where is he?”

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean…. Where. Is. He.”

“He was released about a half hour ago. His brother sent up a nice young man to go fetch him and drive him home. Said you would be coming by to make sure nothing important was left in the room but had to run a quick errand first, and I should expect you in about 20 minutes, give or take. One of the aides wheeled them down to where the car was waiting. Well, Mr Holmes was wheeled. The driver walked, of course!”

John whipped out his phone and texted Mycroft.

_Did you send a car?_

The reply was immediate.

_No_

Then another followed seconds later.

_How long has he been missing?_

_I went to get fresh clothes and headed right back since they were releasing him this morning. When I got here, they said he went with one of your people._

“Is something wrong, Dr Watson?” The nurse looked at him, concerned.

“I- “

The mobile pinged again, and John turned his attention back to it.

_I will be right there. Black sedan. License plate LB68DAR_

“Look, I need to ask you and some other staff members a few questions, but I have to go down and meet someone first. Will you still be here in a half hour? When’s the next shift change?”

“Not until noon. Is something missing from the room?”

“Yeah.” He stopped himself from saying ‘Sherlock Holmes’. “Yeah, but I need to go; I’ll be right back.”

John walked away as quickly as he could manage, short of a run, while the nurse rang the cleaning staff supervisor.

——————

 

As he slipped into the back seat without a thought to his surroundings, still fighting against a growing sense of shock, John was aware of just how grateful he was Mycroft had had the foresight to have given him the car’s plate numbers. 

Mycroft was seated in the back as well, and efficiently assessed John’s mental state before speaking. “John. I have reviewed all available video surveillance. I can clearly see him being assisted by nursing staff into a vehicle. It is definitely not one of mine, and I believe Sherlock would have been quite aware of that fact. He does, however, appear to be cooperating with the abductor. There is only the one man and his driver. I think it likely he could have made short work of both of them under normal circumstances. Considering this, along with the video footage, I find it strongly suggestive of an earlier threat having been made.”

“Come quietly or else?”

“Exactly. Sherlock knows once you are taken to a secondary location your chances of survival decrease immeasurably, but I am equally certain he believes he can outwit his captors and beat the odds. I'd like to think he has left some sort of trail. I will have a team survey each area where he can be seen on camera and I will reexamine the footage myself. He knows we will be watching.”

John leaned forward in his seat, placing his elbows on his knees. “The timing...how could anyone know when he was going to be released? It isn't as if this hospital visit was planned.”

“Which means it was either an opportunistic hospital employee with criminal connections, or one of the people responsible for putting him in the hospital in the first place.” 

“Or someone connected to the Yard. They knew. They sent cards and flowers.”

“Did any of them know what time he was being released?”

“No. They all thought it was yesterday. They knew the injuries were more or less superficial, and I hadn’t updated anyone about the extra day.”

“I can check the CCTV for that vehicle... to see if it was there yesterday morning as well. If not, it indicates inside knowledge as to Sherlock’s release date.” Mycroft pulled out a notebook from his jacket and made a quick entry. 

“Should we ask the hospital employees anything? I mean, I didn’t explain anything, but I said I’d be back.”

“It might be better if you didn't. Publicity and rumour will only make matters worse. I’ll obtain a list of the staff members and cleaning crew who work on this floor and we will check out their social connections and finances. Clearly the staff didn’t see anything unusual. The man walked in, claimed to be a driver in my employ, and they left together, correct?”

“Yeah.” John clenched and unclenched his fist. “What do I do?”

“You have the most difficult job of all. Waiting for a ransom call.”

——————

John needed to let Mycroft’s people do their thing, but he was determined to do something. Anything. Which was why he was on a helicopter flying above an endless ocean.

Sherrinford would have given anyone the creeps, even if they hadn’t been put through Eurus Holmes’ custom made hell. John took a deep breath and reminded himself why he needed to do this. There was no way he’d trust anyone but himself to determine just how involved she might be. True, she had fooled him just as easily as anyone else, but John was certain either of her brothers were pure putty in her hands. He had to be a harder read. Had to be. And if he wasn’t... Well, at least he had seen her with his own eyes. Could make his own assessment. He walked into her holding area. This time there were two guards there to accompany him who did not leave.

John walked up to the glass enclosure, standing way beyond the caution line painted on the floor. “Look, I, uh, know you don’t particularly like me- I mean, I am pretty sure you were on Team Mycroft when you set us up to compete against each other- but I need your help.”

Eurus crossed the cell, sat down on her cot, and looked at John with complete indifference.

“Sherlock is missing. No, not missing. Sherlock was taken. And I’ll admit the first thing I wanted to do was to be as certain as possible that you weren't behind it.”

Eurus only nodded once, but John saw such eloquence in the gesture that words seemed extraneous. _Yes, I knew something was wrong once I saw you. No, I did not do anything, but I understand why you would think I had done. I will do all within my power to find him. I am sorry._

“I know you aren’t speaking. And I doubt a clarinet duet will shed any light on what you know. So. If you have any answers, I am sure you will keep me informed, right?”

Eurus made no gesture to acknowledge John’s question.

“Good. Nice chatting with you.” John turned and left.

——————

The text read _Rucastle_

John didn’t want to think about how Eurus had managed to figure it out, and wanted to think about how she had gotten hold of a mobile and his number even less.

Rucastle. The name sounded familiar, but not enough to bring up a clear memory. Or was it a place? Thank god Sherlock’s filling system for past cases made more sense than the one for his socks.

The Rs weren’t nearly as extensive as the Ms, and Rucastle was easily found. Jephro Rucastle. The one with the hidden room where he had held his daughter prisoner. John frowned. He thought he remembered his having been attacked by his own poorly treated dog at the end of the case. He went back to his blog, and sure enough there was the entry: “The Copper Beaches”, so named for the extensive stretches of golden sand peppered with many small coastal dunes leading up to a remote hilltop cottage somewhere along the Lizard Peninsula. Beautiful, but isolated. Sherlock had been right. Isolation generally meant bad things.

There was a sticky note in Sherlock’s handwriting tucked within the paper file which updated the case: Rucastle had survived and was being cared for by his second wife. Perhaps she was a nurse? Well, that at least made sense, but the rest of it didn’t. It couldn’t be Jephro Rucastle Eurus was referencing. Rucastle had barely survived the attack, and while he could fake being nice, he couldn’t fake being young. No, the man at the hospital couldn't have been him. 

John looked at Sherlock’s note once more. It was dated a month post case. He did a rudimentary laptop search on Rucastle, and sure enough the man had died over four years ago. Maybe Eurus meant it was the same type of set up- he was in someone’s hidden room somewhere? But where? And why would she send a text like that? That just made him feel even more helpless and immeasurably worse. Huh. Maybe that was why.

Or maybe he was just missing something obvious, on account of being so tired. He hadn’t slept more than four hours in the past three days, had travelled to Sherrinford for what now felt like no reason at all, had kept a constant vigil on his phone and blog for any indication of someone trying to contact him. 

Three days. Three days without Sherlock. Mycroft had agreed to let the Yard get involved once he realised the search for the car had been far from promising. They found it abandoned in a carpark on the outskirts of London. Where they had gone next was anyone’s guess. Mycroft was pouring through footage in hopes that they could connect it to another vehicle. 

John called Mycroft to inform him of the text and gave him a rundown of the information they knew about Rucastle, starting off with the fact that he was dead.

“How did you come to take the case?” asked Mycroft.

“Our client, Violet Hunter, was working at his home. A cleaning person, I think? Wait. No, she wasn’t a cleaning lady, she was a music teacher for their son! The son never practiced the organ when she was around, only sat on the far side of the room and listened to her perform the piece for that week. Rucastle said he was too shy to play in front of her, but practiced a lot once she was gone. He wouldn’t allow the son to play any popular music, only hymns. She thought that was pretty weird, but he paid very well so she tolerated the eccentricities of a religious aging man. The tipping point came when Rucastle bought her a fancy dress and a very expensive diamond crucifix and asked her to wear them both at the next lesson- and to stay over for dinner. She turned down the invitation and the gifts, thinking he was interested in her. She certainly wasn’t interested in him. Turned out it was all because she looked enough like his daughter to fool the daughter’s girlfriend into thinking she was happily engaging in family life, playing her godly music, and wanting nothing more to do with her.”

“While the actual daughter was doing penance for her sins elsewhere in the home?”

“Right. Violet even found the room. Rucastle said he used it for developing photographs, which was why the outside windows were blacked out, and that she should never go there again. Then he suddenly claimed it was time to feed the dog and showed her where he kept his chained up Mastiff. The son dutifully fed it a dismembered animal- perhaps a cat, she couldn’t tell- while his father praised him on his fine butchering skills. We rescued the daughter the next day.”

“Lovely family. How long ago did this take place?”

“About five years ago.”

“And how old was the son?”

“Fuck! The son!” John grabbed the files and rummaged through them. “I didn’t keep the address! I guess I thought it was confidential information. But I know I can find that cottage again. The son’s name was Edward Rucastle.”  
——————

Mycroft’s men found Sherlock in the so-called darkroom, barely capable of lifting his head to acknowledge their presence. He was huddled into himself, fighting the chill of the attic room. His wrists showed evidence of his having been restrained, but the rope was gone now- as if it was no longer deemed necessary. John was once more grateful for Mycroft’s omniscience; his team had brought crackers and water. Sherlock forced himself to eat and drink slowly, so as to not shock his system. It was clear he had had nothing during his time there. John placed Sherlock’s coat around his shoulders and held his hand on the helicopter ride back to London. The whiring blades and the occasional communication between the pilot and the tower were the only sounds.

When they arrived, Sherlock agreed he needed medical care, but he refused to stay overnight. He successfully played the live-in physician card, and John happily let him. He examined every injury the staff had catalogued as Sherlock spent the day cooperating with endless evaluations in exchange for going home that night. John could always read through the reports later, his primary concern was the possibility of a concussion. Second Impact Syndrome was real and deadly. 

Sherlock assured John he had not sustained any such injury, was well aware of the statistics associated with sequential concussion, and that that had played a very large part in why he had been so cooperative with his captor. Another part was a series of photographs Rucastle had of Rosie playing at recess. They could protect her at home, but in school they relied on the observational skills and quick judgment of others. Not a risk he was prepared to take.

John sat down at the table and poked at the beans with his fork. It was evening, but breakfast food was easy to make and always on hand. “I just want to put it out there. That if there is anything I can do to help- _anything-_ please, just let me know.

“Yes, you can keep me the hell out of hospitals. I don’t have a good track record with them.”

“Um. Okay.”

They sat in silence. Sherlock made a face at the bacon and eggs, slid his chair back from the table and rose. “I’ll be fine. It’s all just tr-” He looked over at John and sat back down again, making a show out of eating a slice of toast. “I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock buried himself in an experiment without uttering a single word for the remainder of the evening. Eventually he went to bed, slipping in beside John in continued silence.  
——————

Sherlock was already in the kitchen when John awoke, though John was generally the earlier riser. The morning brought with it a few more sentences. “You are wondering what exactly I experienced. Specifically, if there was anything you couldn’t find out from my medical records- which you went through with a fine-toothed comb.”

“Anything I probably missed that you might want to tell me about?”

“No.”

“No...um- No, nothing else... or no, nothing I want to tell you about?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.”

“I’d rather not discuss this. I am here. I am alive. It’s enough.”

John cleared his throat. “Whenever you might want to- “

Sherlock cut him off. “Yes. Whenever I might want to.”

Sherlock indexed papers throughout the day, and when John finally began to act as if he might be getting ready for bed, Sherlock went to the sofa, tossing his dressing gown to one side and curling himself in to face the backrest. He grunted as his dramatic flair was compromised by the need to shift around several times to find a comfortable resting position which didn’t put undue pressure on his forearm or shoulder. The injuries were on opposite sides of his body.  
——————

 

The next morning, as John awoke, Sherlock was standing in the doorway. 

“I’m sorry, John. You don’t know what to say any more than I do. And I suppose the favored method of recovery in such instances is to be as open as possible. I will endeavor to make this my goal.”

“Writing can help. Getting the experience down on paper, so you can at least keep it from circling round and round in your head.”

“Ah, yes. That is an excellent suggestion. Thank you, John.”

He left the room, only to return an hour later, hovering over the breakfast table without sitting down to eat. 

John glanced up at him, then quickly returned his focus to his morning paper.

“Here.” Sherlock dropped a few sheets of folded stationery next to the toast.

“I- I didn’t mean that you should write it for me. It’s supposed to help you. To process. You don’t-”

“Pointless not to. While I suppose it is debatable, as my partner, if you have a right to know, it is perfectly understandable that you should wish to. Since it’s already right there, your reading it makes perfect sense.”

“If you are all right with that.”

“Of course I am.”

Sherlock walked away.

John looked at the letter, then picked up his paper, then angrily threw the Times aside and began to read.

——————

It was John’s turn to avoid Sherlock, though he somehow managed to be right by his side whilst doing so. They still slept together. John would cook breakfast as usual. Order carry away for lunch. They even has a case Lestrade sent their way, which Sherlock announced had been carefully screened to promise the lowest risk of physical peril. It had gone relatively well, though Sherlock disliked having to work with a limited range of motion. His arm remained casted just above the wrist and he had trouble putting weight on his knees, which made examining footprints exceedingly difficult. And John had stood carefully beside him without quite making contact. 

When Sherlock joined John on the sofa during one of his more banal shows, John scooted over a bit to accommodate him. That was the final straw.

“John. I know you are not meaning to imply that this was in any way my fault, or that I am damaged in such a way as to affect our relationship. Such an implication would infuriate you. But the fact remains: I move closer. You back away. This is not being done as a misguided protective gesture for my benefit, or else it would extend into other forms of mollycoddling, which it has not. It remains entirely physical.”

John moved closer until he was practically in Sherlock’s lap. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“That would imply that what we have,” Sherlock waved his hand between them, “and my recent experience are somehow comparable in my mind. And while I agree some parts of it may be _technically_ comparable, the context is-“

“No, that is not what I meant by that. I- I don’t even know what I meant. I’m sorry.” John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s upper arm and pulled him closer still, mindful not to make contact with the carving which would forever mar the surface of his pale shoulder blade.

“It isn’t sensitive to touch.”

“There’s nerve damage?”

“No, not at all. It isn’t that deep. I meant that it is already healing, though I will admit I still can’t quite get a good view, given the location. I’ve done worse to my own person when I was contemplating the depth of wounds made by a blunt kitchen knife during the Camberwell poisoning case.” Sherlock showed John a tiny mark at the base of his index finger. “Before we met.” Nowhere near the same thing as words etched into flesh. John tried to force the image out of his mind.

“Accidentally cutting yourself doesn’t make for a good comparison,” John said.

“It wasn’t accidental. Subcutaneous poisons require a certain degree of depth. It seemed an efficient way to determine if it was possible.”

John took a deep breath before he was able to finally reply, “Still not the same.”

***  
Another morning, and after their meal Sherlock returned to the table, this time with an air of over-enthusiastic glee. John had already cleared the table.

“So, let’s see if I have correctly deduced the source of your occasional discomfort. I’m captured. You save me. Gallant rescuer claims his prize and has his way with him- or more likely, her- reaping the font of gratitude. Not to critique your imagination, John, but this plays out rather like a typical pornograpy film you likely had viewed in your youth. As rescue fantasies go, it sounds exceedingly harmless.”

“I suppose I should be surprised that you sussed that out, but, seeing as you are you… Yeah, you read me like a book. Bit of an embarrassing fantasy to admit to having had, given what happened at The Beaches, but it really is Hurt Comfort 101.” John went back to doing the dishes.

Sherlock’s tone grew more serious. “Except it wasn't. That wasn't what you ran through your head.”

John methodically turned off the faucet and dried his hands on the dish towel, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. “No. It wasn't.” He threw the towel down on the counter. “Look, this doesn't matter. What pops into the subconscious is beyond anyone’s control.”

“Exactly. So why do your thoughts continue to upset you?”

“Because, I never expected it to be anything remotely close to reality. And now that it is, I-“

“You didn't arrange it.”

“Of course not.”

“You didn't wish it into being.”

John was silent.

“Truly, John, if you had that kind of superpower you would have used it before now. You didn't wish it into being.”

“Fine.” John recited the words flatly, as if performing a primary school oratory. “I didn't wish it into being.”

“Is it the same?”

“Is what the same?”

“What happened and whatever it is you like to fantasise about. Is it the same?”

“It's- It’s close enough. Kidnapping. A bit less of the broken bones in the version in my head. That isn't something I am especially fascinated by. A sort of, reaching a breaking point. Bringing you back from that.”

“Beaten until I was compliant?”

“Oh no. It isn’t about your being compliant. I wouldn’t say you ever were. Except when I decided they had captured me, when I had tried to find you. That made you compliant. Well... more compliant.”

“For the assurance of your safety.”

“Depends. Look, I…don't think we-“

Sherlock grinned. “Well, if you don’t tell me I’ll be forced to come up with additional scenarios until I can be assured I’ve got it right.” He sat down in his chair beside the fireplace and templed his fingers in front of his face. “I would assume sometimes they have their way with me and you have to watch. And perhaps sometimes they assure you I will be unharmed, but only if you take my place?”

“Can we stop this?”

“You've run this scenario through your head more than once.” 

“I’ve...considered...different things at different times. None of it can ever happen in any context now, so it hardly matters.”

“That rather depends on what it is. Right now I feel no compulsion to work through any of it, but I might. It isn’t beyond the realm of possibility.”

“It’s beyond possibility for me.”

“How long have you thought about these types of scenarios? Is this new?”

“Well, I guess it came and went with other partners, but it was never quite like this. It started before we were a couple. Back when Woodley had managed to shove you into his car.”

Sherlock would have jumped up and flailed around the room, were it not for the uncooperative nature of his knees. He made do with gesturing wildly with his good arm. “Zip ties! As if I couldn't break a zip tie! And as if a child-locked door made any difference. Even if there hadn’t been an assortment of blunt objects tucked under the front seat with which to knock him out, I could easily have just slammed his head into the side window whilst he was occupied with driving.”

“Yeah, it was rather poorly executed. But ever since then, I’d think about it. What if he managed to drive off with you. Somewhere. If Moriarty was still alive, it seemed like something he might do.”

“Jim was far more concerned with my being voluntarily interested in him. Not that he would have been above manipulating the situation to make that happen. But I understand the comparison.”

John turned his head downward. “But I honestly thought once we had made it past that point- once we were a couple- that those thoughts would vanish.”

“Foolish, John. Those thoughts will never vanish, just change form.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I don't think so.”

“Yes, Sherlock, it absolutely is. Talking with you about this, as if it were somehow all about me. It is ri _dic_ ulous. And what we are talking about is even more ridiculous.”

“But it is helpful.”

“I can work through it on my own, thanks.”

“I meant helpful to me.”

John paused before finally saying, “Truly?”

“Truly. While I do like the way you are able to regularly surprise me, that has its limits. I don’t like not being able to understand you. Whether we choose to add anything remotely like it to our repertoire or not is irrelevant.”

“Not.”

“Not. Fine.”

“This all would be easier to discuss if you were more-“

Sherlock waited for John to finish his sentence- and finally he did, with, “Nevermind.”

“Not an acceptable reply.“

“Look, I...I just wish you had these kinds of things in your head sometimes. So it would feel more... balanced.”

“How do you know I don't?” 

“Because if you did, you would have asked for whatever they were a long time ago. You are shameless.”

“Not anymore.”

John felt a chill pass through him. He made his way into the sitting room slowly, as if the air had suddenly changed density and any movement was now sluggish and difficult. Sherlock waited until John had reached his chair before continuing to speak.

“If I was completely unaffected by all this, I’d be worried. Right now I’m detached, callous to myself, even, because it is too soon. Once I come down, so to speak, if I still feel this...blasé… then I’ll worry. Though it isn’t fun, rooting for yourself to lose your composure. But talking about...similar...things that are still different in all the ways that actually matter is showing me I can do this. It feels important. Maybe it’s related to control? I’m not being clear, I know. What I mean to say is, it may be ridiculous, but it is also helpful.”

John shook his head in disbelief. “OK, fine. A lot of the time, I found I wanted to be there along with you. So I let myself be there. Early on, I would imagine one or both of us would somehow be compelled to acknowledge what we were to each other through...some horrible shared experience. I think the first time I had decided not to censor it at all, just let it play, I… Having to watch. A lot of that. I sometimes helped you through it.”

“How?”

“Um. Like... you could connect with me somehow, and forget they were the ones who were actually… Christ.” John showed no indication of finishing the sentence, and Sherlock nodded. 

“Did you ever join in? On their side.”

“No! And don’t go saying because I answered so quickly it means yes, all right? Because, I said no because, I had considered it. I considered whether I would want that. And what it might mean if I did. Anyway, no, I didn’t. But I did find out what I really wanted was to-“ John looked at Sherlock’s hands. There were still raw red marks along both wrists. “Wanted. Past tense, okay?” Sherlock nodded again. “What I really wanted was to-“

“John, stop. I am abusing the situation. Don’t share any more with me than you wish to.”

“You don’t want to hear it either, then?”

Sherlock spoke softly. “No, it isn’t that I don't want to hear any more. Though I will admit, I would have said something very much like that if I didn’t. It’s that I have no right to ask for this sort of disclosure from you. No more than you had a right to ask me exactly what happened at The Beaches. That I should wish you to is irrelevant.”

“You know what I wanted.”

Sherlock looked at his own wrists. “You wanted to tie me up. I knew that already.”

“That part seems almost boring, doesn’t it. Who doesn’t want to experiment with bondage? It follows the blindfolding and sensory deprivation stuff we were playing around with pretty naturally, I think. No, that’s not the thing that concerned me.”

“You wanted to hurt me.”

“To possess you. And don’t go saying that I do already, because that’s not what I mean. To be the… Look, you are right. I don’t have to say any of this. Let’s just hold each other and sit by the fire and do nothing. How’s about that? Good?”

“You wanted to mark me.”

“God yes, I did. First I wanted to touch every inch of your skin, and then I wanted to claim it. This is going to sound just as bad as that old poetry you used to read off my laptop, Sherlock. I don’t know which is worse, how I will sound trying to express what it is about it that I want or the thing i’m actually describing. I wanted to break through layers and expose new parts of you. I- I wanted to make holes where light can shine through. Radiate out. You are so pristine.”

“Were.”

“Are. I didn’t want to hurt you. I mean, yes. It would hurt. But that isn't the point. I don’t know where it comes from, that drive. I sometimes think it can’t possibly be from good places. I’m a combat surgeon. To not draw parallels would be daft.”

“There are many more people who enjoy bloodplay than just army doctors, and many army doctors who have no interest in it whatsoever.”

“How many people want to carve their name into someone who has already been mutilated by a violent criminal? I can tell you what that number _should_ be. Zero.”

Sherlock looked at John and shifted in his chair, clearly distraught. John scanned the room for a small pillow to make him more comfortable, but Sherlock shook his head. “No, it isn’t that, but thank you. There are some details absent from my letter. Some of them I thought were not important enough to mention, other parts I didn’t remember as clearly as I do now.” Sherlock closed his eyes for what was only a brief moment, but it had seemed far longer to John, who grew increasingly concerned until they opened once more. “He drugged me. In the car. So I wouldn’t fight him. And again before he made the cuts. I have a fairly high tolerance for such things, but I tried to act as if what he had given me was more effective than it was- so he wouldn't dose me a third, or fourth, time and risk complications. I did my best to remain still. To act unaffected when he removed my shirt. I didn’t know what he had in mind, anything from watching me breathe- which he did for a while- to a more sexual assault- which he, also did for a while.”

John squeezed his eyes shut. Sherlock waited until he opened them to continue. 

“I occupied my mind by taking an inventory of the room to see if I could find an effective hiding place. Some means of escape. I had a vague plan in place, but was too hazy to attempt to execute it. He drew random lines across me, watched as they filled in with blood, and said, “You shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor tattoo any marks on you: I am the Lord. Leviticus.” Then he said I’d face no wrath nor hellfire for they were not my actions, but his. I think he was determined to undermine everything in Leviticus for my benefit. Though I never did get a mixed fabric blanket or a lobster dinner.” 

The attempt at humour was short-lived, and he drew his legs to his chest and wrapped his arms round them. It seemed like an awkward perching for a moment, before he found a position that looked as if it was more comfortable, though perhaps equally guarded.

“He asked me if there was anything I wanted him to write for me. I pretended to not have heard him. He grabbed the back of my neck and turned my ear toward his mouth. “It doesn’t count,” he said. “None of it counts against you. It’s not your defiance, it’s mine. I’m already filled with sin. What harm is there in adding another?” And he asked me once more- louder, more forcefully- if I wanted a particular word. Ignoring him this time didn't seem wise. So I said no. He laughed and carved that very meticulously into my shoulder. “There. The flesh... made word. Not quite John.”

Sherlock laughed. It wasn’t the low, rich sound that John was accustomed to and it jarred in his ears. “It took me far too long, in that state, to make the connection. The Book of John. No more significant to him than Leviticus. But just hearing that name, fleeting as it was, and of course entirely out of context, but somehow, still…”

John fought to simply listen.

“So, yes. For a moment, it was you. Performing some life-sustaining procedure on the dunes of Kandahar instead of those in Cornwall.” He waved a hand in the air. “If there even are dunes in Kandahar. I’ve no idea. Are there? Dunes in Kandahar?”

It took John a moment to find his voice. “Yes. There are barchan dunes, the kind that drift. In the Registan Desert, between Helmand and Kandahar, just south of where we were stationed.”

Sherlock smiled. “Good.” He straightened himself once more. “So. Not so far-fetched, your fantasy. I did somehow manage to forget whose hands they actually were, for a time.” John looked up at Sherlock and lost his battle to be the strong one. “You can hold me, John.” Sherlock spoke a second time, his voice cracking. “No, I want to rephrase that. I need you to hold me. Please hold me.”


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This epilogue continues the story, but I think it might be a bit fluffy, and since OP requested no fluff, I added it as an epilogue. I have been told fluffy bloodplay doesn’t count as fluff. But it is separate from the main story in case it does.

Sherlock smiled. “So what did you bring me?”

“Cling film- we use it for burns-, tape, betadine…” John placed an old-fashioned doctor’s satchel down on the table. It looked very much at home amidst the beakers and Erlenmeyer flasks. “There are many different types of irritants to put in the wound which would keep it from healing up too fast, but since we want it to match somewhat I don't think we should try for a more, ummm, professional look.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I brought a topical antibiotic, but I have a full course of cephalexin right here,” he shook the bottle of pills, “should you need it. I didn’t grab tobramycin, but I have access if necessary. And I wasn’t sure what the best approach would be for pain relief. I have co-codamol. Oxycodone would- ”

“Overkill.”

“And a topical anesthetic as well, but I don’t think it will be strong enough to- ”

“Not necessary. I want to feel the pain.”

John shook his head. “Not for my benefit. I don’t need you to hurt, Sherlock. That’s not the point. That you asked this of me is more than enough to make me damn near giddy. I still can’t- you’re sure?”

“Of course I am. I’ve spent close to a month considering different options. I am absolutely certain it is what I want. So if we don’t follow through with this, it won't be due to my having doubts. You, however, should feel free to express any, if they arise.”

John shook his head. “None whatsoever.” He continued to go through the items he had brought from the clinic. “An antibacterial pain-relieving foam soap.”

Sherlock made a face. “Do they make one that is antibiotic but not analgesic?” 

“This is for keeping it clean as it’s healing, Sherlock. It has nothing to do with the act itself. And why are you so determined to make it painful? Is that a... thing? I didn’t think it was.”

“Two reasons. Firstly, I want to recreate some of the sensations from my prior experience in order to overwrite it with a more positive outcome.”

John placed the neoprene gloves on the table, stopped, pondered it all for a moment, and said, “You know, that actually makes a lot of sense.”

“Of course it does.”

“And second?”

“It is not in a location where I can readily witness the modification as it’s being made. I want to feel it. I want to know it’s happening. I suppose a mild anaesthetic is fine, to dull it a bit, but no more.”

John frowned. “I’d suggest taking something for during. You had two injections of god knows what at the time, combined with your adrenalin response, so you might be far more aware of it physically this time around. Up to you. We have naproxin in the cupboard to help with the swelling during recovery, which you should take once we’ve finished. I know you’ve got a bit of a thing for pirates, but this isn't a bite on a broadsword and swallow down some rum kind of procedure. You don’t want to flinch. There’s no eraser.” He wanted to take that last sentence back, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind; he only flushed a bit before adding, “Well, that would be something to think about for another time now, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh! Well...yes. I think it might be.”

“But you’re right. This is far more serious business. I wouldn’t exactly say solemn. Perhaps merely ceremonial.”

“Though they have the same Latin root,” John added. “Latin is proving to be far more useful than any dead language has a right to be. I know we can rule out bleeding issues and keloids. Any other concerns?”

“I’ll make do without the broadsword, but, might you have a bandana?”

“Seriously? Now?” Sherlock nodded. “Back in a tic.” John went to their room and returned with a large white handkerchief. “Closest I’ve got.”

“That’ll do. Just to keep handy if it proves more difficult than I anticipated and I feel the need to change my internal narration- turn it into a more elaborate fantasy so that you might continue.”

“I know how important this is to you, so I won't stop unless you ask it of me. But if you do, believe me you will have never seen me move faster.” John took out a surgical marker and Sherlock snickered. “What?”

“You are incapable of adding five letters without notes?”

“I might be a bit overwhelmed. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Fine. Might as well do that part now.”

“All right then. Off with that.”

Sherlock removed his shirt. “Is the betadine strictly necessary? The odour is overwhelming.”

“No. Proper care afterward will be enough.”

John ran his index finger gently over the N and O as Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was surprised at how easy it still was to tap into that well of hatred he felt toward Edward Rucastle. He took a deep breath, too. That wasn’t the headspace he wanted to be in right now. John uncapped the marker and wrote S-T-R-U-M, then gently kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck as he shuddered in response.

“John. It- It already feels different. I knew it would matter, but...not quite so soon. And not quite so much.”

“Ours,” said John.

“There is more than one meaning, but, the associations I have are tied to the Latin. And I’m confident I won’t be explaining it to others on a regular basis.” He winked. “Did you know the origins of ‘nostrum’ as a synonym for quackery came from the notion that each concoction was unique or exclusive to the pitchman peddling it? This remedy is certainly unique to us.”

John smiled. How did he end up with this brilliant man? He’d had his share of truly terrible experiences, but he’d do it all over again if it led here. He sat down at the table, folding his arms on its surface.

“You should take the pills with food and give them a chance to kick in. Dinner?”

“Sounds reasonable.” Sherlock popped the co-comidal into his mouth and shook his head at the topical, pushing it aside. “Let’s go out. Angelo’s?”

“Perfect.”

Sherlock called, ordering in advance so their food would be waiting when they arrived. Angelo greeted them with his usual exuberant fanfare. 

“Dr Watson! I really enjoyed your newest case. The one with the auto races.”

“Thank you! There’s an even newer one, though. I just posted it yesterday. Secret codes.” John smiled and stood up just a bit straighter.

“Oh wonderful! Something to look forward to after we close tonight! You do write quickly, don’t you?”

“Oh, John’s always writing! As a matter of fact, John will be doing some writing just after dinner, won’t you, John?” He turned back to Angelo. “Letters which are of critical importance. Won’t be in the blog though. Confidential.” Sherlock reached his hand under the table and drew his fingers across the edge of John’s thigh.

“Yes. Yes, I have some...very important writing to do. S’why we called ahead.” John tried to smile amiably; Sherlock’s grin was huge.

“It’s ready for you. I’ll be right back!”

“Sherlock. Didn’t you just say that this was solemn?”

“No, I said it was ceremonial. Different. Very different.”

“Good, because, there is a word for what I am feeling right now and it is most definitely not solemn.”

“Sorry, John. Have to eat first. Need to keep my strength up and ward off that upset stomach.” He smiled again as John muttered some choice words under his breath.

Angelo came back with an eggplant parmesan for John and a penne pasta for Sherlock. They both ate about a quarter of what was on the plate, John did a fair job pretending he had just received a text about a case (which excited Angelo no end) and they headed home.

Sherlock looked around the room. “Where should we do this? We will need a flat surface that is wide enough for you to be comfortably astride me.”

“That might rule out the sofa. I think our best bet is the bed.”

“Or the floor. Kitchen floor is easier to clean,” said Sherlock.

John frowned. “I just—-no—our kitchen is hardly the place for anything requiring cleanliness. I don't even like to cook in there.”

“Well, I could sit at the table and you’d be behind me.”

“That would make for easier writing. I think. And the table can be sanitised.”

John went to get cleaning supplies while Sherlock lost the battle against fidgeting. He called out to John, “Or we could do the sitting room on the carpet. It shouldn't be all that messy. Should we move there? Should we light a fire? I think we should light a fire. Would a fire be good, John?”

John returned with a bleach solution and began clearing off the table to wipe it down. “No, we’ll need a consistent light source, not a flickering one. And have a thought for Mrs H’s carpet!” He turned back to Sherlock and easily read the anxiety on his features. John spoke softly. “We can postpone this, you realise. I know you want to do it and I’m not questioning your commitment, but- we can do it another time.”

“No! I mean...no. I’m fine, it's just the waiting.”

“Well, I’m just about set here.”

Sherlock began to unbutton his shirt, draped it carefully on the chair at the opposite end of the table, and then took a seat. His naked back looked imprisoned viewed through the rounded wooden spires of the back of the chair. Sherlock leaned his head and upper body against one of the fluffier pillows John had been able to locate. It raised his torso to a comfortable angle, and John admired the skin of his back for the umpteenth time.

Pale and smooth, with muscle tone that had been improving of late, leaving his expensive array of shirts struggling to contain the growing broadness of his shoulders. So very unlike John, who had gained strength during basic training and more or less maintained his body’s basic barreled shape since his 20s. Sherlock continued to grow and change. It fascinated John. It gave him the sense that the man before him was always evolving, a work in progress. It reminded him of art in the making. The letters, already faded to pink, still stood out in sharp relief against the rest of his back.

They were neatly etched, in careful capitals, like the hand of a child learning to print. Sherlock must have been remarkably still. He had been feigning full sedation, perhaps in the hopes that being non-reactive might have made his assailant less aggressive? Less...interested? 

“John?”

“Sorry, Sherlock. Just, thinking about- ” What should he say? He probably should lie. But what else could he be thinking about, really? Sherlock sat up, pulled the chair back, and John found himself staring at the front of his chest now, which seemed slight and frail compared to his back. 

“You are thinking about what it was like for me. I don't know how to describe it. Mostly, I was trying to wait it out. I don't think he found the cutting beautiful or even erotic. It felt to me as if he viewed it as a task he was required to complete. A checklist, if you will. But as for me, all I can remember feeling was the sensation of waiting for it to end.” Sherlock glanced down, embarrassed. “I’d...rather not be waiting now.”

John nodded and went to the sink to wash his hands and put on the gloves. No more waiting.

The black lines stood out boldly, and John placed the tip of the scalpel blade against the top of the first letter. “Ready?”

“Yes,” came the reply.

The first letter was an S, a sweeping curve which he made in one unbroken line, taking great care to not cut too shallow so the motion would not have to be repeated. It didn’t feel like being in surgery nearly as much as John had expected. This was nothing so practical.

The blood took a few seconds to emerge, not appearing in the cut he made until the scalpel was nearly to the end of the line. He wanted to stop and watch it fill in slowly, turning the dark lines of the marker into a thin scarlet thread. The red soon overtook the black as the bleeding flooded over the margins, looking like a river in miniature. The blood was flowing freely now. John daubed at it, watching it absorb into the pristine white gauze, and began on the next letter. Maybe he should check in. Ask Sherlock how he was feeling. Or would asking him to articulate that just call unwanted attention to the whole process, making him feel worse? 

“It’s not especially painful,” Sherlock said, interrupting his thoughts. “I can feel it, but it isn't bad enough to make me long for it to end. You can slow down if you wish. I think…I think your enjoyment of this would be a difference I would like to savour. Do talk to me, John. I want to be assured throughout just who this is. To know fully, deeply, beyond a doubt, that this is you.”

“It isn’t a task, Sherlock, it is a privilege. It is an honour. Your allowing me to transform you.”

“It is also completion, John. What you are doing isn't wounding, it’s healing. I had no idea going into this that I would feel so relaxed and confident. That you would be skilled was assured. That this would feel, right- of that I had no guarantee. Though I do feel a bit, otherworldly is the word, I think.”

The T was a different experience, a line joining another line. Nothing quite so flowing as the S and far more precise. That did feel a bit more surgical. But as he watched the letter appear on the surface once more he was struck by the beauty of it. He kissed Sherlock's other shoulder blade. 

Sherlock let out a small sigh. “Yes, and don't worry- that is fine. Affection was not part of the original experience. I quite like that.”

John felt free to run his fingers along Sherlock’s back, savouring the smoothness of his skin. He longed to have more contact with it. “Can I- Can I take my shirt off as well?”

“Yes. I cannot think of a way in which you would touch me that wouldn’t be welcome, John. My body is yours right now. Comforting touch, soothing touch, curious touch, erotic and sexual touch, they are all fine. They are all welcome. I would love to feel your bare skin against mine, yes. Just don't take too long when you pause to remove your shirt. I need to feel you continually. The absence of contact is the only thing I’d find distressing.”

John kept one hand on Sherlock’s back and began to undo his buttons with the other, but quickly gave up on that and tugged the shirt in an attempt to rip it off single handedly instead. The seams held fast. John laughed. “Always works on film.” He kissed Sherlock’s back while he unbuttoned his shirt properly, then let it simply drop to the floor. He kicked it out of the way, lest he slip. 

John pressed his body against the left side of Sherlock's lower back, far enough away from his shoulder to feel confident he was not risking contamination. Sherlock seemed a bit cold. He wrapped his arms low on his waist and held him for a moment before continuing. Sherlock’s breathing was remarkably relaxed and even.

The R, with its blend of curves and lines, felt practical as well as elaborate, and John couldn’t help but feel a bit- well, ridiculous had been a good word before and it was still a good word- ridiculous at how forming the shapes letters seemed to have an emotional component, but, these were no ordinary letters. He decided to tell Sherlock how making the shapes felt. Sherlock’s reply was simply, “That is beautiful. Thank you.” 

John wondered, when this was all over- when he was healed- if Sherlock would still be keenly aware of the scars, or if it might someday catch him unexpectedly. He decided he’d probably always be aware of them. That at best it would blend together to form something new. Like John’s time in Afghanistan. It was simply part of him now. He was always aware of it on some level. But the hell of the battlefield existed side-by-side with his memories of the type of friendship one could only have in combat zones, of the lives he’d saved and those he had lost, of the late-night poker games and the early morning troop movements to a more secure location. He smiled broadly and made a swooping U, restraining himself just in time from lightening the pressure at the end of the upward stroke.

“Last one,” said Sherlock. He sounded just a bit disappointed. “Any of the others need touching up before the M?”

John blotted them again and looked carefully at each letter with a more clinical eye. “No. They are deep enough. Evenly formed.”

“Good.”

“And you are feeling…?”

“Buoyant. I think that describes it best.”

“Maybe it’s the codeine.”

“Doctor, I’m sure you do realise the codeine does next to nothing for me in terms of procuring a high. But you should know I’ve done multiple lines and not felt this buoyant. Kiss me. Please.”

“Keep still. I’ll come round.”

John circled the back of the chair until they were face to face. Sherlock looked perhaps a bit paler than usual, but seemed to be holding up well. John gave him a gentle kiss, but Sherlock chased his lips as he pulled away. Okay, more, then. Sherlock’s head was turned to the side, and John stroked his hair, then ran his fingers through and clenched at the roots as he found his lips again. He kissed Sherlock passionately, still keeping his head and upper body firmly pressed against the pillow. 

“Want more,” Sherlock said. It was beyond a mere request.

“After the M,” John replied. “Once we are done, I will lay you down and touch and kiss and lick every bit of you that isn't covered in cling film.”

John ran his hand across the accessible skin of Sherlock’s lower abdomen, stopping short of his cock, and then went back to work. He reminded himself to decrease the pace on the rigid lines which made up the M, simple though they were. The cuts were slower, even sensuous now. He took another fresh gauze and blotted the entire area. It was still bleeding freely. “Done. Shall I get the mirror?” 

Sherlock’s voice drawled as he spoke “Later. When the bleeding stops and I can see the outline clearly.” He must be exhausted. 

“Wait a moment before getting up,” said John. He pulled a chair round and they gazed at each other, Sherlock looking spent, but satisfied. 

“There are no words to adequately express how grateful I am.”

“Nostrum,” replied John.


End file.
